All Alone
by ack1308
Summary: Events in the alley go badly wrong ...
1. Chapter 1

**All Alone**

* * *

Events in the alley go badly wrong ...

* * *

 _1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.  
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.  
3) I will accept any legitimate criticism of my work. However, I reserve the right to ignore anyone who says "That's wrong" without showing how it is wrong, and suggesting how it can be made right. Posting negative reviews from an anonymous account is a good way to have said reviews deleted._

* * *

 **Part One: Loss**

* * *

 _Alone, alone, all all alone,  
Alone on a wide, wide sea.  
And never a saint took pity on  
My soul in agony.  
\- from __**The Rime of the Ancient Mariner**_ _, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

* * *

 _ **Freezeframe**_ _._

 _A blue and white globe, with hints of green and brown, slowly turning in the void. Earth, or at least a version thereof. This particular version, known as 'Earth Bet' to its inhabitants, is situated on the far slope of the probability curve, home to strange and unusual happenings. Infected by multidimensional spacegoing parasites, it is Patient Zero for a local outbreak of parahuman activity._

 _ **Zoom in.**_

 _On its moon, a partly finished base lies desolate and abandoned, the erstwhile architect no longer of a mind or will to complete it. In orbit, a white multi-winged figure like a fractured snowflake; even those with telescopes do not look too closely. Closer to the surface, a golden figure, white-clad, saviour and destroyer in one, does good for want of a better purpose._

 _ **Zoom in.**_

 _This nation is relatively new on the scene, although the same cannot be said for the continent upon which it was founded. Since land became distinct from ocean, billions of years past, its component parts have formed jigsaw pieces of larger landmasses, broken apart and reformed endlessly by the relentless forces of continental drift. It is only relatively recently that it has come together as it is now, emerging from the encroaching waters of the world-ocean, and shrugging off the last of the northward-retreating glaciers._

 _And yet, with humanity inhabiting it for thousands of years and giving it no single encompassing name, it took imperialistic invaders from a distant island empire to conquer it and give it that name. Then, mere decades later, a war with the mother country gave it another name, which it has borne for an absurdly short span of its total history; the United States of America._

 _ **Zoom in.**_

 _In the northeastern corner of this nation, where the states are tiny and jostle for elbow room, lie six of the thirteen original states, immortalised upon the flag in blood-red stripes. These six are collectively known as New England; two are indeed named after the regions in far-away England from which those who originally settled them hailed. One is New York, famous – or perhaps_ _ **in**_ _famous – for being home to one of the largest, busiest cities in the world. The other is New Hampshire._

 _ **Zoom in.**_

 _Upon the meagre stretch of coastline allotted to New Hampshire lies a city not quite like any other. For reasons lost to history, its name is Brockton Bay, rather than the more prosaic Portsmouth, posited once upon a time by nostalgic Englishmen. For a city of its modest population – just over three hundred thousand at last census – it is home to a startlingly large number of parahumans. In fact, with more than fifty known local capes, and more than a few unknown, the Brockton Bay metropolitan area is home to the seventh highest concentration of capes per capita in the continental United States._

 _Unfortunately, there are more villains than heroes in Brockton Bay, and have been for quite some time. This gives rise to villain-led gangs, who often act with impunity in broad daylight. Sometimes, this leads to tragic consequences._

 _ **Zoom in.**_

 _A through-way, somewhere between a narrow street and a wide alleyway. A dumpster at one end, lacking wheels. Butted up against the dumpster, an expensive-looking car; last year's model. At the other end of the alley, blocking the way, a white van. Crouched on the roof of the car, a dark-cloaked figure. Between the car and the van, several people._

 _All but one of these people wear the colours of the ABB, a local Asian-centric gang. It is headed by a parahuman called Lung, which means Dragon in his mother's tongue._

 _ **Focus.**_

 _The one exception is female, caucasian, teenage, red-haired. Her name is Emma. Up until a few moments ago, she was happy, safe, secure, riding in her father's car. Now, she is kneeling on rough asphalt, surrounded by hostile, sneering teenage criminals. One of them, also a girl, is wearing her jacket, and is tracing the tip of a knife over her face. Emma's mouth is full of her own hair; she has been told by the girl that she must eat the hair and then choose which part of her face is to be mutilated._

 _She has just seen the cloaked figure, a girl, couched on top of the car. Watching, not acting. Not helping her. She is pleading with her eyes, not able to understand why the girl on top of the car isn't moving, isn't coming to her aid._

 _ **Focus**_ _._

 _The vigilante crouches on the car roof. Her name is Sophia. None of the gang members have seen her yet; they are concentrating on their victim. She relishes the moment which is yet to come, when they see her, realise the danger they are in. The terror they will feel. Fear of_ _ **her**_ _, the predator._

 _She stares at the redhead, looking for a sign of defiance, of struggle. If the girl fights back, then she will intervene before this goes too far. The girl will have earned her reprieve by proving that she's not a victim. Shadow Stalker has no time for victims._

 _ **Focus**_ _._

 _The Asian girl is called Yan. She likes the jacket; it's much better than any of her other clothes. And this girl, this rich white bitch, was just wearing it around, like an accessory. She doesn't appreciate it. She doesn't_ _ **deserve**_ _it._

 _Yan is working herself into a righteous anger, so that she can do what she needs to do. She's not much older than this girl, if she's any older at all, and she's tired of being treated like a plaything by the men, tired of being nothing more than their whore. She's made it clear before now that she wants to be a proper member, and this is her chance._

 _So if she has to carve on the girl a bit, make her into an object lesson as to why you don't come into ABB territory without paying toll – although the phrase 'object lesson' isn't really a part of her vocabulary – then that's what she's going to do._

 _Not that she's got any intention of killing her, of course. Just the face. Fuck her over a bit, just like life's fucked Yan over up till now. And if it means she gets to wear the colours for real, to earn the respect that a proper ABB member deserves, then fuck this bitch. A small part of her is wondering, as she watches the redhead try to chew on her own hair, what part of her face she'll choose to sacrifice._

 _ **Focus**_ _._

 _In the car, a frantic father is held at bay by grinning ABB members, as they rifle the glove compartment for whatever they can loot. They don't know about the cloaked figure atop the car either. They will soon learn._

 _Face-down in the passenger footwell of the car, unheeded and unnoticed, a discarded mobile phone has been connected to the 9-1-1 network for some moments now. From the noises she has heard, the operator has decided that something is badly wrong. She has dispatched police and emergency services. They will arrive far too late._

 _ **Action**_ _._

 _The first thing that happens is that the gang member holding Emma's right arm notices that she is staring fixedly toward the car. He looks in that direction and sees the cloaked figure of the vigilante on the roof of the car. Beginning to shout a warning, he loosens his grip on Emma's arm._

 _Reacting without thinking, Emma jerks her arm free of his hands, and viciously elbows him in the testicles. He screams in pain and shoves her away from him._

 _Unfortunately for her, another gang member is holding her left arm, so she can't go that way. She can only pivot forward. Yan was tracing the point of the knife over Emma's jawline as she tried to swallow the mouthful of hair, and is taken by surprise; the knife slides into Emma's throat with very little resistance indeed._

 _Emma doesn't even feel it at first; the knife is so sharp that the cut nerves barely react. But then Yan panics –_ _ **I didn't want to**_ **kill** _ **her!**_ _\- and tries to pull it out again, causing farther damage. Emma pulls away, twisting her neck, and the knife blade slices out through her carotid artery._

 _Blood sprays out, spattering over Yan and her jacket both; her knife arm is red from wrist to shoulder. Released by the second gang member, Emma slumps backward, her hands coming up to try to stem the flow of blood._

 _ **Focus.**_

 _Shadow Stalker comes off the car in a delayed reaction. She sees the redheaded girl falling, blood spraying, and she is incensed. A crossbow bolt whickers through the air, strikes the back of the neck of the girl holding the knife. That girl opens her mouth with a puzzled expression, allowing a sharp metal tongue to protrude from between her lips, before she drops to her knees and flops lifelessly to one side._

 _ **Focus.**_

 _Emma, lying on the ground, watches the fight, even as blood pumps from between her fingers and her sight grows dim. She does not know the vigilante's name, and now she never will. But she moves so gracefully, so smoothly, delivering brutal blows and slashing her foes with hand-held arrows. Emma wants to cheer her on, but she can't breathe, can't do anything. Her hands are falling away from the horrific wound in her throat._

 _ **Focus.**_

 _The last of the ABB gang members is down, either dead, dying or unconscious. Sophia approaches the redhead. She's lying in a huge pool of her own blood, so it's not hard to understand that she's either dead or not far off it. Sophia crouches, and takes hold of one of the girl's hands, squeezes it. Imagines that she feels a response, sees a flicker in the dimming eyes._

" _I'm sorry," she says softly. "I should have done something sooner. I'm sorry."_

 _She can't think of anything else to say. This girl was a fighter, and Sophia failed her. It's not a feeling she likes._

 _When she stands up, the redhead's eyes are still open, but the blood has ceased to pump from her throat; the girl is dead. Leaning forward, she passes her hand over the girl's eyes, closing them for the last time._

" _You were a fighter," she murmurs. It is her highest accolade._

 _ **Focus.**_

 _By the time Alan Barnes climbs out of the car, looking around dazedly, he finds that he is late to the party. The members of the group that attacked them are strewn around, sporting ghastly injuries. He ignores them, stumbles to where Emma is lying crumpled on the ground. Her eyes are closed; there is blood all over her front._

" _Emma!" he croaks. "Wake up!" Perhaps she is only unconscious. "Emma, please wake up." He shakes her again._

 _ **Focus.**_

 _When the police and ambulance arrive on scene, he is still shaking her, and pleading for her to wake up. When they break the news that she is dead, has been dead for some time, he has to be restrained._

 _Every single ABB member in the alleyway is dead; forensic examination suggests that Shadow Stalker is responsible for at least half the corpses, as they have been killed with crossbow arrows. This information is duly passed on to the PRT._

 _ **Focus.**_

 _When Shadow Stalker gets home, she carefully peels her glove off. The blood of the red-haired girl, the fighter who died in front of her, is still on it. She sits, looking at it, for a long time._

 _Guilt is not something that she is used to feeling, and so when her mother calls her down for dinner, she shrugs it off, washes the blood from the glove, and puts it away with the rest of her costume._

* * *

In every movie Taylor had ever watched with a funeral scene, it was at least a cloudy day, usually rainy. Funerals were gloomy, sad affairs, and the weather reflected this. A bright, cheerful day with bright sunshine and birds singing from every tree was not what she considered to be that sort of day, and yet, this was the day that they were burying Emma.

She walked toward the gravesite, wearing the same black dress that she had worn for her mother's funeral, just a year previously. The ache in her heart was back, the same familiar bone-deep hurt that comes from losing someone close and irreplaceable. Her father walked alongside her, his lanky frame somehow making his black suit look cheap and shabby. She held his hand; he squeezed it encouragingly.

Emma's other friends had attended, as had their parents. Alan Barnes was there, looking somehow shrunken, reduced. On either side of him were his wife, Zoe, and his daughter Anne. His arms were about them, and they seemed to be supporting him as much as he was supporting them.

Danny approached Alan, and they shook hands. Taylor didn't know Anne very well, but she offered a few words of sympathy. Zoe was crying, had been crying all morning from the looks of it, but then, so too had Taylor. Taylor and Zoe did not need to speak to each other; each knew without words how the other felt. They hugged, each comforting the other. More tears flowed.

* * *

"I – I thought you were at nature camp," Alan Barnes said to Taylor.

"I was," she replied. "When I heard, I got Dad to come and pick me up."

He shook his head. "You didn't have to do that."

Tears were flowing down her cheeks again. "Yes, I did. It's Emma."

He folded her in his arms, a strong bear-hug; she held him in return. "Thank you for coming."

The hearse approached, picking its way between the gravestones on the path set out for it. When it came to a halt, the rear door hinged upward, and the coffin rolled out a little way.

Taylor stepped back, but Alan Barnes gestured to her and Danny. "Come on."

"But we're not -" began Danny hesitantly.

"You are now," Alan told him firmly, more firmly than he would have been capable of, twelve hours previously. "You made the effort to be here, and you're as much family as anyone but Zoe and Anne and me are. Come on."

* * *

And so, Taylor found herself in the position of carrying her best friend's coffin to the grave. Alan and Danny took the front positions, Taylor was herself opposite Anne, and Zoe was opposite a friend of Emma's, called Diane. It wasn't a physically difficult task, as the weight was split between six people, four of them adults, but it brought the reality home to her; _Emma is dead. She's in this coffin. We're going to bury her._

Carefully, they placed the coffin on the straps over the six foot deep hole, then stepped back. Taylor's hand found Danny's again, and they stood like that as the priest approached the grave. He said the words that were said at occasions like this. Taylor tuned him out, as she had noticed someone standing off a way, half-behind a tree, but definitely watching the service. She couldn't see who it was, but she didn't think that she knew them.

Once the words had been spoken, the blessings had been given, Taylor stepped forward and threw a handful of rose petals on to the coffin as it slowly descended into the grave. Danny did likewise, scooping them from the bowl that was being passed around. The final blessings were given, and people started to drift away.

Alan approached Danny once more. "We're having a memorial at our house. You're welcome to come." _Please come,_ his eyes begged.

Danny nodded. "Of course we will."

Briefly, the two men hugged. There was nothing unmanly about it; they were both strong men who had undergone travail, and if one man cannot hug another man for comfort, then there is something wrong with the world.

"Taylor and I'll be staying just a little while," Danny ventured, gesturing in a particular direction.

"Oh, of course," Alan replied, understanding perfectly. He took a deep breath. "Is it okay if … if we come along?"

"Of course, of course," Danny agreed. "We've … we've got flowers in the car."

* * *

So they backtracked to the car and got the flowers out, and made the trek to where Taylor's mother had been interred the year before. The flowers in the vase were dead, and Taylor removed them, then filled the vase with water from a bottle before Danny placed the fresh flowers in it.

"Red gardenias, her favourite," murmured Alan. Taylor nodded, tearing up all over again.

Taylor and Danny stood, side by side, silently communing with whatever they recalled of Annette Rose Hebert, while Alan Barnes stood with his wife and remaining child, off to the side.

And then Alan went to his knees and began to speak. "Anne-Rose, we were friends before you passed. My Emma's dead, but you probably know this by now. So if you could find her for me, for us, and show her the way, I'd …" He paused to swallow a lump in his throat. "You were almost as much a mother to her as Zoe was. Be a mother for her, now that she's away from us. Please."

He couldn't speak any more, as he broke down bawling. Anne went to her knees beside him, and Zoe on the other side. Taylor was holding her father and crying just as hard; the tears leaking on to her shoulder told her that he wasn't holding his tears back either.

Eventually, the tears dried up, and Alan stood up with his wife and daughter. He shook hands with Danny one more time, while Taylor hugged Zoe and then Anne. Danny hugged Zoe, and then the five of them walked back through the cemetery to where the few cars still awaited.

Just as she got into her father's car, Taylor looked around, but the silent watcher was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

End of Part One


	2. Chapter 2

**All Alone**

* * *

Part Two: Perspectives

* * *

 **The Vigilante**

* * *

I frowned as I held the small pair of binoculars to my eyes. I didn't understand the impulse that had me out here, in the cemetery, watching the funeral of a girl whom I had never gotten to know, who had never even spoken to me. I had tried to put it out of my mind, tried to go on. But late at night, when I closed my eyes, hers looked back at me, the light dying out of them as her fingers twitched in mine.

At the time, I had thought that she was acknowledging my words, accepting my apology. But what if she'd wanted to blame me for what happened to her? What if she died believing that I'd failed her?

I didn't like that, not at all. She had been a fighter; she had fought back, despite the odds, despite having no powers, and she had died as a direct result. I had _waited_ until she fought back; I had not acted until then. I _could_ have acted first, could have taken out the girl with the knife, could have saved her. But I had wanted to see if she was a fighter, if she was worth saving.

And she had been. But I hadn't been able to save her. By waiting, I may have had some small responsibility for the fact that she was now dead.

Had I killed her? I didn't know. I didn't even know how to find out. I couldn't go back and change matters. For that matter, I didn't even know what I was doing here, at the funeral. But ever since I saw the obituary notice in the paper, recognised the face, found out her name, I had known that I needed to be here, to observe, to do her the respect of turning up. Recognising the fact that Emma Barnes had lived and died, and that I had had something to do with the latter.

I focused the binoculars, frowning again; this time, it was because of something I had seen. Emma's father was easy to pick out; a big man with red hair. Her older sister, likewise; her hair was more auburn than actually red, but her face had some of Emma's bone structure. Her mother; brunette, pretty enough to have contributed to Emma's striking looks.

But there were others, not related to the family as far I could tell; no congruence of features. The girl, tall and skinny with a long, serious face, hugged Emma's mother, and then her father.

There was something there. These people, father and daughter, stood by the Barnes family as the hearse approached. And then they helped carry the coffin to the grave itself. _They're definitely close._

I thought about it, as the people began to disperse. Emma would have been about this girl's age. If they were friends, then maybe I could find out from her what Emma had really been like, if her fighting back was just a fluke, or if she really had been that strong.

As they went back toward the cars, I drifted from tree to tree, hoping to get close enough to get a good look at a licence plate. But then they retrieved something from one of the cars, and moved back into the cemetery; I had to duck behind a gravestone so they wouldn't see me.

Earlier, the skinny girl had looked my way, and I thought she'd made me. But she'd neither pointed me out nor done anything about me, so I shelved the idea and kept watching. However, I was a lot more careful as I ghosted after them toward wherever they were going.

They congregated around another gravestone; the girl and her father replaced some flowers in a vase, and Emma's father looked as though he were praying. I wished that I'd spent the time to learn how to lip-read; binoculars can only tell you so much.

When they were gone, I went and checked out the gravestone. The name on it was Annette Rose Hebert, and she had died the year before. The birth and death dates put her at just about the right age to have a teenage daughter, so now I had a name to go on with.

* * *

 **The Best Friend's Father**

* * *

I pulled the car to a halt and set the parking brake. Turning to Taylor, I put my hand on hers. She looked at me, her eyes still red-rimmed. Emma's death, coming so soon after she had been talking on the phone to her on that fateful afternoon, had really hit her hard. Almost as hard as Anne-Rose's death had hit her, I imagined. Probably as hard as her mother's passing had hit _me._

"You okay?" I asked.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Not really," she admitted. "It just … it just didn't seem _real,_ you know? Like with Mom. Not until the burial."

I nodded. _Oh yes, I know that one._ "It never does, not until you can't ignore it any more."

She stared at me, her eyes huge and tragic behind her glasses. "When does it stop, Dad? When does it stop hurting?"

Popping my seatbelt, I gathered her into a hug; she sniffled into my shoulder. "It just … fades," I replied inadequately. "Eventually, you find yourself just … living again." Not that I could talk; after Anne-Rose, I went totally to pieces. It was Emma and her family who took care of Taylor after I ceased to function as a person, until Alan had some stern words with me.

 _Emma and her family._

 _Oh god, who's going to help Taylor through_ ** _this_** _?_

I felt utterly unsuited for the task. When it came to dealing with grief, I had not made a good showing. I had folded like cheap tissue paper.

"Emma was just … there." She sniffled again. "She was always _there_."

I knew exactly how she felt. "Look, if you don't want to … I can tell Alan that you're not feeling well … "

I could tell the exact moment when she decided _hell with it, I feel like crap but I'll do it anyway._ Her shoulders straightened, and she sat up in her seat and adjusted her glasses. "No. Emma would, for me."

That had the sound of a mantra. _If Emma can do this, then I can do this._ I didn't begrudge her it; if it helped her get through the day, if it kept her memory of her best friend alive, then I had absolutely no problem with it. "Yeah, kiddo, she probably would."

That earned me a watery smile; we got out of the car and locked the doors. Even in Alan's area of town, you didn't tempt fate. There were enough cars here that we had to walk a little way. Taylor's hand crept into mine, and we walked side by side; I adjusted my pace to hers.

As we came up to the front gate, there were people standing on the porch whom I vaguely recognised. Taylor's steps slowed, and her grip on my hand tightened. We paused at the gate. "You okay?" I asked quietly.

* * *

 **The Best Friend**

* * *

He'd asked me that before. "No," I answered honestly. "I don't know if I can do this."

Concern was evident in his eyes. "We'll just say hello, make our excuses and leave. We don't have to stay if you don't feel like it."

 _Emma would._

The thought straightened my spine; I took a deep breath. "Let's go in."

I felt rather than saw his brief, surprised glance, but then I reached out and opened the front gate. We went up the path and climbed the steps; the front door was open. Dad nodded to the people on the porch; they nodded back, murmured solicitations. I doubted they even knew who I was; friends of Mr Barnes, no doubt, showing up to prove they cared. Which they didn't, not really, but that was how it was done. Everyone pretended, everyone _knew_ they were pretending, and they pretended they didn't know.

We entered the house, and all of a sudden, I was _reminded._ All around me, it seemed, there were greatly enlarged photographs of Emma. Riding her first bicycle, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, nervously astride a horse for the first time. Looking around, I saw her life in pictures; for quite a few of them, I had been there, and I remembered the occasion. Sometimes, I was even _in_ the photo. One or two of the others, I had taken myself. That put a catch in my throat; _they've used_ ** _my_** _photos to remember Emma by._

The largest photo, taken at her middle school graduation party, showed her vibrantly alive, ready to take on the world. It sat on its own little table, flanked by vases holding extravagant bunches of flowers. I knew, as Dad did, that it had originally been a double photo, with me in the frame as well; in fact, the hand on her shoulder was mine. I wasn't upset at the Barneses for cropping it to show Emma alone; after all, I was not the one being memorialised. Besides, it was a really great photo of her. If only I could focus on it without my eyes beginning to swim in tears.

"Hi." It was Mr Barnes. He handed Dad and me plastic cups. "Thanks for coming over."

It was almost as though he was talking about a Saturday afternoon get together in the back yard … I looked at his face, saw his eyes. No, he wasn't thinking like that at all. I knew the pain in his eyes; I had seen it in mine, in the mirror, all too often. _First Mom, and now Emma._ I had seen it in Dad, too, after Mom died. Mr Barnes was only barely holding it together.

"Thanks." I took the cup, sipped at it. Fruit cordial. Emma would have made a smartass comment about it not tasting like any natural fruit in existence.

All of a sudden, it tasted sour in my mouth. There was bile in the back of my throat. I placed the cup unsteadily on the table. "Can I … can I be excused?"

"Of course," Mr Barnes told me. I didn't look at him or Dad, but I felt their concerned gazes on me as I climbed the stairs, as hastily as I dared.

When I got to the bathroom, I didn't throw up, but from the feel of it, it was a near thing. After a while, I got up from where I was kneeling before the toilet and splashed water on my face. A couple of handfuls of water eased the queasy feeling in my throat, and I put my glasses back on. Looking in the mirror, I decided that if I ever wanted to make the pale Goth scene, I was in there with a chance. My face looked almost gaunt, and my cheekbones had never been more prominent.

Not that I wanted prominent cheekbones. I just wanted my best friend back.

Wandering from the bathroom, I found myself pushing open Emma's bedroom door. On the threshold, I hesitated just for a moment, then I steeled myself and stepped inside.

They hadn't touched a thing, as far as I could tell. Her bed was even partially unmade, from the last time she had slept in it. The room had that very slightly musty smell, as of a place that has been undisturbed for a few days. I paused; they _had_ taken some things. A couple of the stuffed animals that normally had pride of place on the shelf above her bed, a picture of me that normally rested on her dresser, her prized Alexandria action figure, the one that I had always coveted, all gone.

 _She must have been buried with them,_ I figured. I wished that I had gotten back earlier, in time to attend the church service, time to get a gift for her myself, to put in her coffin. I found myself tearing up all over again, and I sat down on the bed. Here, in this room, she was far more present than when her coffin was being lowered into the cold ground. I half-expected her to open the door and walk in with a comment about how she could improve my wardrobe _so_ much if I'd just let her try.

Kicking off my sandals, I rolled on to the bed, pulled the covers over me. I had slept in this bed almost as much as in the bed in the spare room. In this bed, Emma and I had watched movies and read books and eaten snacks (and been chewed out for leaving crumbs in the bed) and clung to each other as thunderstorms rattled the windowpanes outside.

I was here now, and she wasn't. I had never felt so lonely in all my life.

Softly, I began to cry all over again, my tears soaking into the pillow.

* * *

 **The Vigilante**

* * *

I don't normally worry about doing the detective thing, but I'm not stupid, and I can use a computer. The library had them, so I got online and set about looking up Annette Hebert. It wasn't even difficult; almost immediately, I had a hit on a newspaper article, dated August of two thousand and eight. A woman by the name of Annette Rose Hebert had been out driving when she had gone off the road and crashed; single car accident. It was thought that she had been texting on her phone at the time. She was survived by her husband Daniel and her daughter Taylor.

I looked at the photo given; a tall, slender woman, with long curly hair. Thinking back to the skinny girl at the graveside, I could easily see her in this woman. That settled it; I knew who these people were. I could find them. If Taylor had been Emma's friend, then I wanted to talk to her.

Now all I had to do was figure out what I wanted to say.

* * *

 **The Sister**

* * *

I paused at the top of the stairs; I had been about to go to the bathroom and freshen up, but then I heard muffled sobbing, and saw that Emma's door was open. Dad hadn't been able to go in there after … well, after. Mom had had to venture in herself, to get those things that Emma had loved the most, and she had shut the door firmly afterward. I didn't know why she hadn't locked it; maybe it was so we didn't lock Emma's memory away from us or something.

There was no real mystery about who it was; I went to the door and pushed it all the way open. Taylor was lying in Emma's bed, covers pulled over herself, curled up into a sobbing ball. I kind of understood; as sisters, Emma and I had always been reasonably close, but nothing like the friendship she had with Taylor.

I had never gotten to know Taylor really well myself; she was a few years younger than me, and she was first and foremost Emma's friend, but we'd chatted on more than one occasion, and she had always struck me as a bright and cheerful spirit. Of course, when talking with Taylor, one had to work hard to get a word in edgewise, but she was so enthusiastic and bubbly that it wasn't hard to forgive her that. And her chatter was never brainless or air-headed; she was _smart._

Thinking back, Taylor had been good for Emma; she didn't idolise her, didn't worship the ground she walked on. She gave Emma the truth straight up, always. She kept Emma's feet on the ground, where others would have told her whatever she wanted to hear. Of course, Emma was also good for Taylor; being a bit of a loner and a bookworm, Taylor could quite easily have squirrelled herself away in a quiet corner far more often than she did, were it not for my sister and her ability to get Taylor outside and having fun.

I was already feeling the hole in my life where Emma used to be; I could only begin to guess how hard it was on Taylor, this coming so soon after she lost her mother.

Entering the room was like parting an invisible spider-web, or breaking the surface of a pool of still water. Everything on the other side looked subtly different. This room was Emma's, and her personality was stamped upon every inch of it.

Walking over to the bed, I sat down and put my hand on where the covers mounded up over Taylor's shoulder. All I could really see of her was the spill of her hair on the pillow, where the covers had been pulled over her head. Slowly, I pulled the covers back; she kept crying, and I rubbed her shoulder gently. Human contact; we all need it, whether we know it or not.

When she had run down for the moment, she turned her head and looked up at me. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for?" I asked gently. "This was your space as much as Emma's. I know she wouldn't begrudge you this."

"Yeah, but I should have asked permission."

I shrugged. "Permission given. I dunno that I ever saw you as a little sister exactly – one was bad enough – but I know Mom and Dad considered you almost that close."

She pushed the covers back farther and sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Thanks," she murmured. "I always thought you were kind of cool. I never had a big sister. I hope we weren't too annoying to you."

I had to smile, though this was a day where smiles were rare. "You were both kind of bratty, but it was a cute kind of bratty, so I never had much of a problem with it." I put an arm around her and hugged her to me; she leaned in, and we sat for a few moments, content to ignore the outside world, drawing comfort from the contact.

Then a thought struck me, and I let her go. "Come on, I've got something for you."

Pulling her feet from under the covers, she looked at me curiously. "What?"

I grinned, feeling good that I was able to do so. "You'll see."

* * *

 **The Best Friend**

* * *

Slipping my feet back into my sandals, I followed Anne to her room; when I hesitated on the threshold, she gestured me inside. "That first night," she explained, "I went into her room. I knew Mom and Dad would want to put stuff in her coffin, the stuff that she loved. But there was something that I knew she would have wanted you to have. So I took it from her room first."

I blinked; this was the first time that I had been invited into Anne's room; the first time that I had been there, outside of pranks played by Emma and myself upon her. _Bratty, indeed._

"What is it?" I asked, still a little muzzy from my crying.

"This." Opening her wardrobe, she reached up to the top shelf and took down something, and handed it to me. It was the Alexandria action figure, the one that I had assumed had been buried with Emma.

I stared at it. "I can't take this." I tried to hand it back.

She shook her head. "No. I know how much she loved it, and how much you wanted it. How over the moon you were when she let you borrow it for a week, and how you brought it back without a scratch. How you played tricks on her with everything else she owned, but never that. As her big sister, and yours by proxy, I'm making an executive decision. Take it. It's yours now. Take good care of it."

I stared at the plastic figurine nestling in my hands. "I will. I promise." Abruptly, I hugged her fiercely. "Thank you. Thanks for being here. Thanks for talking to me."

She held me close; despite the fact that I was a few years younger than her, I was almost her height. "That's okay, brat. Thanks for being Emma's best friend. Thanks for always being there for her."

We stood there, holding each other, for a long time. In my hand was clutched the Alexandria figure; it wasn't valuable, or even particularly rare, but between Emma and I, it had fought a hundred imaginary superhero battles. Even now I could see Emma, her face alight, swooping the plastic hero into battles she inevitably won, though they be hard-fought against nigh-impossible odds.

It was a part of everything that Emma had meant to me, the basis of a thousand happy memories. It was worth more than gold to me.

I even knew where I was going to put it when I got home.

Right next to Mom's flute.

* * *

End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

This is a _non-canon_ omake for All Alone.

* * *

 **Futures**

* * *

Emma opens her eyes and looks around. "Where am I?" she asks dazedly.

Alexandria, seated in her father's favourite armchair, looks up from the book she is reading. "You're dreaming," she tells Emma concisely.

"Oh," she responds, belatedly noticing that 'Alexandria' actually has articulated joints. The fact that her prized action figure has entered her dreams and is now talking to her does not bother her as much as it might have. This is, after all, a dream. "Uh ... so, what's this dream about? Is Behemoth going to jump out of my closet?"

Alexandria shakes her head. "No. This dream's about you and Taylor."

Emma realises that Taylor is sleeping beside her, snoring softly. "What about her?" she asks quietly. "Please don't tell me that we're a lesbian couple, because that's just ew. Even with Taylor."

Alexandria chuckles. "No, but it is about your relationship with her. You need to make a decision."

"A decision about what?"

The far wall becomes a movie screen, split in two. Both begin playing a movie, but Emma finds that she can follow both.

"In a few days, Taylor's mom will be killed in a car accident," Alexandria's voice emerges from the darkness. "She will need you more than ever."

"That's terrible," Emma gasps. "Can't we warn her?"

There's a chuckle. "This is a dream. You won't remember this at all. Or believe it if you do."

"Oh."

"Now, this is a year from now."

The movies play on. Emma sees herself in a narrow street, surrounded by ABB gang members. In both, she fights back. In one, her throat is slashed and she dies in a pool of her own blood. In the other, she is saved by the cloaked vigilante.

"I think I like that one - " she begins, but is hushed by Alexandria. The movies roll on.

In one, she gets a beautiful funeral. She is remembered with loving affection. Taylor suffers from her loss, but bears up under it. Life goes on.

In the other, she joins forces with the vigilante to torment Taylor. For more than a year they do this, culminating in a locker full of -

"Oh god, stop it! I can't watch any more!"

Beside her, Taylor mumbles in her sleep and rolls over. Emma stares at the images frozen on the screen.

They vanish. Alexandria is still seated in the armchair.

"I can't - I can't change anything else?"

A shake of the head. "No. You may only choose between those two futures."

"And I won't remember."

"That's true."

"And in one I die, and in the other I'm an utter bitch who betrays her best friend."

"Something of that sort, yes."

Emma takes a deep breath, and makes her choice. It's surprisingly easy.

 _What the hell,_ she tells herself, _it's only a dream._


	4. Chapter 4

**All Alone**

* * *

Part Three: All In the Name

* * *

 **The Daughter**

* * *

Limbo.

More than just a mythical location, it is also a state of mind, a state of being. Or rather, a state of _non-_ being. Not thinking, eyes closed, breathing shallowly, not moving. Not acknowledging even the _possibility_ of the existence of an outside world.

 _There is nothing here. Nothing can hurt me, because I do not exist._

 _If there is no me, then there is no pain, no hurt, no loss._

 _I am not._

* * *

She drifted in limbo, the warmth of the sheets covering her a barely acknowledged reality. The covers that she had pulled over her head gave the illusion of night-time, let her pretend that she was asleep, didn't have to get up, didn't have to do anything.

Didn't have to _remember._

"Taylor."

 _The voice is an illusion. It doesn't exist. Ignore it for long enough and it will go away. It always has before._

"Taylor."

 _The voice does not exist. I do not exist. Nothing exists._

"Taylor!"

She clenched her eyes shut, but did not put her hands over her ears, because that would acknowledge the existence of the voice.

 _I am not._

"Taylor, you have to get up. You've been in bed for _days."_

The covers were pulled away from over her head; warm sunlight splashed over her face, her vision turning from black to red with the glare through her closed eyelids. She curled instinctively, arms covering her head, assuming a foetal position.

"Taylor, you have to get up. You have to eat. To drink. To _bathe."_

 _I_ _ **have**_ _been getting up,_ she thought rebelliously. Midnight forays to sneak downstairs when the hunger pangs grew too strong to ignore. Furtive bites snatched in darkness because she didn't want to turn the lights on, to face her father. To face herself. To face reality.

"Taylor, get _up."_ There was desperation in his voice now. Fear, for her. _He doesn't want to lose me, like he lost Mom._

"D'n'w'n'a," she mumbled through a dry mouth, through vocal cords that hadn't uttered a sound that wasn't a sob for two weeks. The words, such as they were, came out despite herself, and in that moment she knew that she had lost.

* * *

Since the funeral, she had been striving to shut herself away from the world, shut the world away from herself. Her father would get up in the morning, shower and make breakfast. Then he would come and tap on her bedroom door before he went to work. She always heard him, never answered.

Awake, she would curl around the little tight ball of misery that was her entire world now, and pull the covers over her head. Sometimes she would sleep, sometimes she would cry, and sometimes she would just lie awake the entire day, the slow march of her thoughts matching the progression of the sun across the sky.

He would come home in the afternoon, to find her breakfast cold and congealed in the pan. She would hear him sigh as he scraped the pan out, and then he would come upstairs and tap on her door. Call out to her, ask her what she wanted for dinner. She never answered. Her door would creak open slightly; he would be checking that she was still there, still alive. She would roll over, turning her face from the door, and it would close again.

* * *

But now he wasn't taking that for an answer. He had forced her to respond to him, with almost insulting ease. Perhaps some part of her -

 _No!_

\- wanted to end this self-imposed exile -

 _I don't!_

\- and rejoin her family -

 _Don't make me!_

\- and the human race again.

 _Please. Don't make me._

 _Don't make me remember._

She felt hands on her, guiding her to sit up. Her legs unfolded against her will, slid over the side of the bed. "Christ," he muttered. "You're skin and bone."

Her eyes opened, but she kept them downcast. "Been eating," she muttered defiantly.

"Not much," he retorted. "And you _smell_. Have you showered at all?"

The answer to that was obvious. She didn't want to shower during the day, while he was out, because then she would have to look at herself, look at her face in the mirror. See the hurt in her own eyes. And she couldn't shower at night, because then he would hear her. Get up, perhaps. Turn on the lights. Talk to her. Make her talk to him. Make her _think._ Make her remember.

"Well, you're showering now," he decided. "You're getting up now, and you're marching into that bathroom, and you're going to stand under the shower for at least five minutes." As he spoke, he was delving into her drawers, retrieving a shirt, a pair of jeans. Underwear, even. "If you don't, then I'm going to fill the tub full of ice water and dunk you in it."

Her eyes opened wider at that. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," he retorted, with an uncharacteristic grimness. "It's been two weeks since Emma passed. To mourn is natural. This is more than mourning. It seems to me like you're trying to join her. Are you?"

The shock went through her system like an electric jolt. _Is that what I've been doing?_

Almost immediately, she denied it. _No. No, I wouldn't do that._ But the denial felt just a little hollow.

"Dad," she ventured, to try to turn her thoughts away from that topic, "is this what it was like for you when Mom passed?"

He took a long moment to answer, and his own face was carved in harsher lines when he did. "I … possibly. I don't remember much of that time. I know that Alan and Zoe and Emma took you in, helped you where I couldn't. But they can't help you now. They need all the help they can get, themselves. It's a terrible thing, to lose a child."

 _He fears losing me. He's worried for me. He loves me._

 _I've been so selfish. Emma's gone, but she wouldn't want me to do this. She'd want me to get out and make the best of life._

Guilt welled up inside her, and she pushed herself to her feet. It took her two tries, but she made it. Taking the clothes from his arms, she made her way across the room to the door. It felt strange, opening it in broad daylight. Turning, she looked across at the shelf above her bed, which held two of her most prized possessions. One was a flute, worn and well-used, while the other was an equally well-used Alexandria action figure. The flute reminded her of happier days with her mother; the plastic toy stood strong and brave and optimistic, as she remembered Emma to be. _Mom, Emma, I'm sorry. I'll do better._

Her father followed her along the hallway to the bathroom. "I'll be making breakfast," he told her. "Bacon and eggs okay?"

Her stomach rumbled alarmingly, and she was suddenly very hungry. "Yes, please."

* * *

After the shower, she realised just how bad she must have smelled; she could scarcely stand the reek of the pyjamas she had been wearing. Freshly soaped and scrubbed, hair shampooed, she felt a thousand percent better. And the odour of the cooking food, wafting up from the kitchen, made her stomach rumble all over again.

Her father looked up as she entered the kitchen; he was just putting bacon and egg on to a plate for her. "Hey now," he greeted her. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," she told him. It wasn't totally true; she was still avoiding her own gaze in the mirror, but she could handle being up and about. The impulse to dive back into bed and pull the covers over herself was still there, but it was being eroded more and more by the minute.

Taking her seat at the table, she picked up the glass of orange juice at her place, and sipped at it. It tasted heavenly; she could _feel_ the chilled liquid trickling down her throat. A _clank_ signalled the plate being placed before her; the delicious odour of freshly cooked bacon and eggs, seasoned just the way she liked them, hit her nostrils anew.

"Now, take it easy," he cautioned her. "You haven't been eating that much recently, so you want to ease into it."

He hadn't given her all that much, she realised. Compared to what he had on his plate, it wasn't much at all, but she still had trouble finishing it. It tasted so good; she felt as though she'd been fasting for weeks instead of days. "Wow," she told him after swallowing the last morsel. "That was great, Dad. Thanks."

Much of the worry was gone from his face and voice when he answered. "It's good just to see you up and around, kiddo. Now, let's go do one more thing."

"Go do what?" she asked. "I can't eat another bite, honestly."

"Not food." He held up the car keys. "We're going out."

"What?" She was puzzled. "Where? Why?"

"You'll see," he replied. "Now go visit the bathroom so we can go."

"What? I don't have to -" Her stomach took the opportunity to rumble in quite a different manner than before. "Whoops. Maybe I do."

* * *

Once in the car, she watched him driving. "Sorry for frightening you like that, Dad," she ventured. "I … don't know -"

"I do," he stated. "You were right. When your mother passed, I went into a similar state. I could barely take care of myself; I certainly couldn't take care of you. I owe Alan and Zoe so much, just for being there when you asked them for help." Glancing across at her, he continued. "I don't know how you held up so well."

"I didn't," she confessed. "I fell apart totally too, remember? And even a month later, I was still crying myself to sleep." She had cried again, in the shower, but her father hadn't commented on her puffy eyes, for which she was grateful.

"Well, you've been coming back," he noted. "Even Alan was saying before you went on the camp that you were looking more cheerful, more like yourself. It's been good to see. Good to see you again."

"I don't know if I'll ever feel like me again," she replied in a choked voice. "Emma -"

* * *

 **The Father**

* * *

She began crying again; wordlessly, he handed her a box of tissues from the centre console. She used them profligately, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, but he didn't care. She was letting the emotions out, which was far better than locking them inside. Which was basically the point behind this trip.

They made one stop, at a florist. She stared out the window at the floral arrangements, then turned to him. "What are we doing here, Dad?"

"Why else?" he tried to make his tone light. "To buy flowers."

She didn't ask who the flowers were for; that was kind of a given. Together, they went into the shop. She got a little teary while picking out a bunch of summer-bright flowers, but he pretended not to see. He picked out a wreath; she was silent as they went back to the car.

They had driven a few more blocks before she started looking around, an expression of concern on her face. "Uh, you do know that you're going the wrong way for the cemetery, right, Dad?"

He nodded. "Yes. We're not going there."

"What?" She stared at him. "Where are we going then?"

He drew a deep breath. "I asked Alan. We're going to where it happened."

"What?" Her tone was utterly different, this time. "What, no. No. I don't want to go there, Dad."

"Taylor, listen to me." He put all the strength he could into his voice. "I'll be there with you, every step of the way. We need to see it. We need to see the place. It might help you come to terms with it. To face what's happened. Give you closure."

She clenched her hands around the bouquet that she was carrying so tightly that her knuckles whitened. "The only thing that would give me closure would be … " Her voice dropped too low for him to hear, but he could guess. _If I could kill the bastard who did it._

He didn't know how to tell her that her wish had already been granted; at least the part involving the death of the culprit. The police had kept it quiet, but Alan Barnes had confided to him the scale of the bloodbath following the death of his daughter. Their best suspect for the murder, found wearing Emma's jacket, with the bloody blade still in hand, had been found dead on site, along with several of her comrades. Emma had been killed by a girl only a year or two older than herself.

"Well, let's just see how it goes, okay, Taylor?"

She brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. "I guess."

* * *

 **The Vigilante**

* * *

She picked up the signal from the radio beeper when it was still four blocks away. For the last two weeks she had been confining her attentions to this general area, two weeks during which she waited for Emma's friend to visit the spot. The device that Sophia had attached to the Heberts' car wasn't exactly Tinker tech, but it did the job; it had cost her a chunk of druggie money, but that was okay. There was always more where that came from. But now she was starting to get impatient; another week and she would have cut to the chase, gone to talk to the girl directly.

She pulled the receiver out of the belt pouch and tried to align the screen properly. The tiny dot indicating the car's location was moving toward the appropriate area, all right. _Excellent. Show time._

She wasn't quite sure what she was expecting from the girl; after all, she hadn't been in the alleyway. All Sophia had seen of her was a tall, rail-thin girl, crying and being comforted by her father. _Is she a wimp? Is that why it's taken her this long to come here?_

 _Nah. The Barnes girl was a fighter. She wouldn't be friends with a wimp._

Stuffing the receiver back into the pouch, she ran to the edge of the roof and jumped; her cloak flared as she went to shadow form and coasted to the next building, where she reformed and ran forward once more. While she couldn't run as fast as a car, she didn't have to stop for traffic lights, or take a roundabout way to get where she wanted to go.

Puffing slightly from the exertion, she paused on the rooftop that she wanted. _Are they going to drive up there, or park outside and walk?_ She didn't _think_ they would drive into the alleyway; that, after all, was what had precipitated what had happened to the Barnes girl. But then, walking down the length of the narrow street held its own perils. Walking was the ballsier option. _Let's see what this one does._

The car nosed up to the turnoff leading into the alleyway, and stopped. The air was so still that Sophia actually heard the parking brake come on as the engine stopped. Both doors opened, and they got out, bright flowers in hand.

 _Wait, what? They're bringing flowers? Did I just misjudge this whole thing?_

As she watched, the father went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. From it, he took a large tyre iron. Gripping it tightly, he rejoined his daughter. _Well,_ _ **he's**_ _not stupid anyway._ _ **He's**_ _not prey._

* * *

 **The Daughter**

* * *

Taylor glanced around as they walked down the narrow street. It looked ordinary to her, strewn with random trash and refuse, but what had happened here made it ominous. Even though it was midmorning, the shadows cast by the buildings were just a little intimidating. She felt that she was on the set of a horror movie, that the monster was going to jump out at any minute now.

A flicker of movement, above, caught her eye, and she jumped, moving closer to her father. Turning her head, she stared at the edge of the roof. "Something's up there," she stated, not daring to raise her voice too much.

"What's that, Taylor?" Her father was looking all around, even glancing behind them, as they advanced down the alley. He put his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close. She didn't have any problem with that.

"I saw something move. Up there, on the roof."

"Probably a bird, or a stray cat looking for a bird," he suggested.

"I guess," she responded, but she was dubious. It hadn't _looked_ like a bird, but then, she'd seen it only fleetingly, and not through her glasses. All she'd gotten an impression of was a dark object, moving. _For all I know, it was a gorilla. Or a runaway weather balloon._

He kept moving, and she kept moving with him, but she was watching the edge of the rooftops now.

* * *

 **The Father**

* * *

"Taylor."

She looked around at him. "What?"

He pointed down at the ground before them. There was a vague misshapen stain on it; it could have been oil, paint or a dozen other substances. He knew what it was. "This is where it happened. This is where she died."

Dropping to his knees, he carefully laid the wreath on the spot. "Rest in peace, Emma. You will be remembered."

Beside him, Taylor was looking around at the alleyway, the surrounding buildings. "This is the place? This is where my best friend died?" Tears were running down her face. "Emma died _here?_ In this stinking, shitty place?"

"Taylor -"

"No, Dad, don't you see how _wrong_ this all is? Emma wasn't supposed to _die._ She was supposed to _live!_ We were going to grow up as best friends, and critique each others' boyfriends – well, _I'd_ critique _her_ boyfriends – and she was going to be a supermodel, and I'd be a scientist and discover how super-powers really worked, or something like that! We were going to have _lives!_ Adventure! _Fun!"_ She kicked an empty tin can; it skittered across the cracked asphalt until it hit a wall. "And now all that's gone because of some _fucking assholes_ in a _dirty stinking fucking alley!"_

As her voice rose, echoing between the buildings, she stormed back and forth across the road, kicking at scraps of newspaper and other trash. The can bounced away again, propelled by her foot; she ran after it and kicked it again, the bouquet forgotten in her hand.

Danny got to his feet and glanced around. He didn't like the idea of her yelling like this; the idea had been to visit, lay the flowers down, then walk away. But at least she was venting, letting her feelings out. _But still …_

"Taylor." She was standing still, head down, crying, as he came up to her. "Taylor, come on." As he put his arms around her, she leaned against his chest.

"It's just not _fair,_ you know?" she sobbed. "It's not fair. This shouldn't have happened to her."

"I know, kiddo, I know," he sighed. "Life's not fair. We both know that." _I've known it since Anne-Rose passed._

"I'm sorry for yelling like that," she ventured.

"It was only the truth," he pointed out. "Want to put your flowers down?"

"Okay." Pulling away from his hug, she went to where the wreath lay, and carefully placed the bouquet in the middle of it. "Emma, I'm really sorry this happened, okay? I'll try to have a great life for the both of us."

* * *

 **The Vigilante**

* * *

She couldn't hear the words as they spoke between themselves, but the girl – Taylor – had been clearly audible as she yelled. She had anger in her; Sophia could hear it. If she'd just started to cry, Sophia would have dismissed her as a wimp, but the violence in her actions told another story altogether.

She was sharp, too; Sophia wasn't sure that she hadn't been made, earlier, when they were walking up the alley. Taylor had been scanning the edges of the rooftop, and Sophia had had to keep her head down so as not to be seen. Most people didn't look up; it was a fact that made her life easier. But Taylor had looked up. _What does that mean?_

In any case, there was a new situation brewing. While they'd been in the alleyway, a couple of guys from the Merchants had wandered up and were now leaning on the car. These guys were out of their territory and they had to know it, but they were probably out tagging for the hell of it. The Archer's Bridge Merchants were not known for their common sense; they were in the process of being forced out of their original territory by the ABB, but they still went and tagged in ABB turf.

What the hell; Sophia didn't care about what happened to some Merchant mooks.

But what was going on down there at the moment was definitely of interest to her. Taylor and her father had just walked out of the entrance to the street, to see the gang punks. _How are they going to handle this? Are they going to fold, or are they going to fight?_

* * *

 **The Daughter**

* * *

She caught her breath when she saw the gang members. The anger had drained out of her, or at least mostly so, and she was more tired than anything; she still wasn't really recovered from her self-imposed starvation diet. There they were, leaning against the car, smoking something that she guessed wasn't tobacco, jeering to one another in highly obscene terms.

Her mind flashed back to what had happened to Emma, and she felt fear. It washed through her body, weakening her knees and loosening her bowels. _Oh god, what's going to happen?_ "D-dad?"

"Taylor." His voice was firm and low. "Stay behind me." Gripping the tyre iron, which she had quite forgotten that he was carrying, he stepped forward.

The punks turned when he was still a few paces from the car. "Hey man, whassup?"

Her father stopped, and pointed the tyre iron like a gun. "Whassup, you little shits, is that you're gonna get off my goddamn car, and fuck off before I beat the ever-loving shit out of you."

Taylor's eyes opened wide. _I've_ _ **never**_ _heard Dad talk like that before._

It seemed that the gang punks were equally surprised. "Hey man, chill," one of them told him. "We're just hangin'. No big."

* * *

 **The Father**

* * *

Stepping forward again, he brought the iron down on the trunk of the car, leaving a dent. He hated doing it, but the anger roiling through him needed a target, and they needed to see that he meant business. The loud bang caused both the gang punks to jump up and away from the car. "Then go and hang some other place," he growled. "Fuck off before I fuck you up." Raising the tyre iron threateningly, he took another step forward.

"Shit, dude, all right, all right, we're going." They backed off; he wanted to follow, to threaten them some more, but they were going. The danger to Taylor was passing. He stood foursquare, tyre iron in sight, as they shambled off, looking back occasionally to make sure he wasn't following. When they felt that they were at a safe distance, they stopped and shouted obscenities, but he didn't care.

Getting his keys out, he unlocked the car and let Taylor in, then went around and got in himself. The tyre iron he tossed into the back seat.

His hands were shaking too much at first to put the key into the ignition; this was due to the after-effects of adrenaline in his system, he knew. But eventually he managed it, turned the key, and started the car.

"Dad … " Taylor began, as he turned the vehicle and began to head back toward home.

He didn't want to look at her, see the fear in her face. He knew he had a violent temper, inherited from his father, but he had sworn that he would never let it loose on Anne-Rose or Taylor. And he hadn't. But now she had seen and heard what he could be like, what his father had been like when he was a boy. "I'm sorry, Taylor."

"Sorry for what, Dad?" she asked, and now he turned to look at her. The look in her eyes wasn't fear, wasn't revulsion. It was hero-worship. "That was _awesome._ You scared the _shit_ out of those assholes."

"Yeah, I know," he grunted. "I shouldn't have done that."

"What? No. Dad, seriously. That was awesome. Totally badass. You did what you had to do."

He shook his head. "Taylor, that's not me. Not really."

Reaching out, she put her hand on his forearm. "Well, I'm glad it was, just then. I'm glad you were there."

Taking his left hand off the wheel, he reached over to briefly cover her hand with his. "I'm just glad we got out of there in one piece. You all right?"

She leaned back in her seat and breathed deeply. "Yeah, Dad. I think I'm better than I was."

"Good. Let's go home; we've had enough adventure for one day."

She giggled, a little high-pitched, some of the adrenaline still working its way out of her system. "Yeah, I think so too."

* * *

 **The Vigilante**

* * *

Shadow Stalker watched the car drive away. She didn't bother to follow. _Well, well,_ she mused. _That family is definitely not made up of wimps. I'm going to have to keep a closer eye on them._

She still hadn't managed to talk to Taylor alone, but her chance would come.

Sooner or later, it would come.

* * *

End of Part Three


	5. Chapter 5

**All Alone**

* * *

Part Four: Bad Decisions

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

 _Two weeks._

She leaned on the railing, looking out at the bay. The Protectorate headquarters, within its pearlescent forcefield, was almost in her line of sight, but she refused to look at it. But she was _aware_ of it, even as she refrained from acknowledging its existence. A rebellious thought flickered in the corner of her mind. _With all their powers, they couldn't prevent one person from being murdered. What good are they, anyway?_

Digging her nails into the wooden rail, she focused on the ocean once more. Brockton Bay was well-known for its climate, unusually warm for how far north it was, and today was proving to be no exception. She wore a sleeveless top and jeans; there was a fine sheen of sweat on her arms from the heat of the day. Before her, the sunlight glinted from wavelets travelling slowly in towards the shore.

Barely any of this registered on her, as she returned to her original train of thought.

 _Two weeks._

 _Two weeks since Emma died. Two weeks until I start high school._

Two weeks was not a _long_ time, in the grand scheme of things. Taylor had had two-week vacations that went by in the flicker of an eyelid. And in fact, it seemed as though barely any time had elapsed since Emma's funeral; while she was no longer burying herself away from the world – not that she had any choice, following her father's intervention – the pain of her loss was still unexpectedly sharp.

At any time of day, she might see something and think, _Oh, Emma would like that._ Or worse, she might actually turn to address her best friend, forgetting that Emma would never again be at her elbow, never again roll her eyes at Taylor's jokes, even as she was laughing. Emma had a knack of telling her own jokes, the punchline carefully timed so that Taylor would snort her drink out of her nose. Taylor had thrown food at her more than once for doing this.

 _I'd let her pull that on me every day of my life if it meant I could have her back._

There were also just two weeks to go until school let in, and that was inflicting a whole new level of heartache upon her. She'd been looking _forward_ to this, to a new school, new experiences. With Emma at her side, of course. Emma was the socially adept one, the pretty one. Taylor was happy to be the unnoticed friend of the popular girl, so long as this meant she didn't get picked on.

However, there was more to it than that. She had needed Emma for balance, for perspective. Before her mother's death, Taylor had been a motormouth, bubbly, full of life. Emma had provided brakes and just a little sanity. She had also, paradoxically, ensured that Taylor didn't just vanish from the world every time she got a new book that she liked.

Taylor, on the other hand, had done … what? Provided companionship? Injected a little levity and amusement into her best friend's life? Been the very best BFF she could possibly be?

She was left wondering if there hadn't been something _more_ she could have done. If she couldn't have been a better friend. Made Emma laugh a bit more, made her life a bit happier. Appreciated her more while she was there to be appreciated.

 _And now I'll be going to high school and she won't be there to enjoy it with me._ Though, to be honest, Emma had never quite enjoyed school as much as Taylor had. The joy of learning, of building on knowledge, was something she had understood, but had never been so deeply into as Taylor had. Nor had she been as much a cape geek as Taylor, although they had discussed the lives of various parahumans for hours at a time.

It was wrenching to think that she'd never have another who-would-win discussion, matching two heroes or two villains and citing previous battles and known powers, hashing out which of them would likely emerge victorious. Alexandria, of course, was the trump card in all of this; they had agreed early on that anyone taking Alexandria on deserved the beatdown they were inevitably going to suffer.

The tears that filled her eyes had little to do with the onshore breeze. _I miss you, Emma._

"Hey."

* * *

Startled from her thoughts, Taylor turned her head. There was someone standing there, but due to her tears, she had no clear view of them, although the voice had been female, probably of her own age. "What?"

"You okay?"

 _I'm about as far from okay as I can possibly get._ But she didn't say so. Instead, she pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. "I guess." She paused. "Uh … do I know you?"

Now that she could see clearly, she already knew the answer to that question. The girl standing before her was indeed a teenager, with long black hair and dark skin. Where Taylor was skinny and gawky, this girl was athletic and graceful. There was an air about her of watchful wariness, of being poised for action at any time. A little disconcertingly, she was almost as tall as Taylor, who was used to having significant height over any gathering of her peers.

"No," the girl confirmed, holding out her hand. "Sophia."

This was as blunt an introduction as Taylor had ever gotten from anyone. "Uh, Taylor," she replied, shaking Sophia's hand tentatively. The other girl's grip was firm, almost challenging; Taylor found herself having to apply a lot more pressure than she had first intended.

Sophia's gaze was very direct, her brown eyes fixed on Taylor's. "It's good to meet you," she said.

Taylor got the impression that there should have been a _finally_ in there somewhere. She wasn't as people-savvy as Emma had been, but she was pretty sure that this was anything but a chance encounter. "Uh, right," she mumbled in reply. "Did you want something?"

Now, for the first time, Sophia seemed ill at ease. "You knew Emma Barnes, right?"

Taylor's eyes opened wide. "What? How did you know Emma? Who _are_ you?"

"Uh … I met her briefly, the day she died," Sophia said awkwardly.

"Oh." Taylor blinked. "She didn't mention meeting any new friends to me."

Sophia's head came up at that. "How do you mean?"

"I mean," Taylor told her, her voice rising a little, "that I was talking on the phone to her about thirty seconds before she was killed. I _mean_ that Emma and I were best friends from first grade and we used to share friends like nobody's business." She stepped forward, closing the distance, obscurely glad for the hot anger that was now replacing the hollowness in her chest. "So if she'd met somebody who she managed to impress to the point that you're seeking _me_ out to ask about her, then you should've made an impression on her too. And she never said word _one_ about meeting someone. So how about you tell me what the _fuck_ you mean by 'met her briefly'. Or fuck off. I don't much care."

* * *

 **Sophia**

* * *

 _Shit. I didn't know that she'd been on the phone._

The conversation was not going at all like Sophia had imagined that it might. Taylor was quick, very quick. She had pounced on the discrepancy almost immediately; Sophia wasn't at all sure how to extricate herself from the problem.

On the other hand, the simmering anger radiating from the girl before her answered one particular question. _Taylor Hebert is not a wimp._ Which, ironically, made things a little harder for her. If the girl had been a pushover, Sophia could have just walked away, secure in the knowledge that if Taylor was a wimp, then Emma would probably have been one too.

 _But she's not. She's really not._

Taylor gave her a cold, dismissive stare. It stung; a moment ago Sophia had been in control of the situation but somehow the initiative had slipped from her grasp. "Emma was my best friend," the skinny girl said. "I don't believe that you knew her at all. You want something from me, and you're just using her name to get under my skin. Go away and leave me alone."

Sophia felt the first stirrings of her own anger. Here she was, honestly making overtures and all she was getting was rejection and abuse. "I'm not going away," she retorted stubbornly. "Not until you tell me what I want to know. About Emma."

Equally stubbornly, Taylor shook her head. "I'm not telling you anything about Emma until you tell me what this is all about."

"I can't tell you that," Sophia insisted. "But it's important to me. I need to know what sort of person she was."

"Well, if you can't tell me why, I'm not telling you shit." Turning, Taylor started moving off.

Incensed, Sophia grabbed her by the shoulder. "Don't you fucking walk away from me."

Even in the heat of her anger, she had not forgotten the assessment she had made of Taylor; specifically, that she was no wimp. Thus, it came as a surprise to her when Taylor turned with the pull instead of resisting it. It was even more of a surprise when Taylor's long arm came around at head height, her open palm cracking against Sophia's cheek.

In the normal course of events, she would have been ready and willing to return such a move with interest when in combat, but this hadn't been combat up until now. Momentarily stunned, she felt herself being pushed roughly back, to land ignominiously on her butt. "Now fuck off," Taylor advised her, "and leave me alone."

As Sophia pulled herself to her feet using the safety rail, her anger flared anew. _Who the fuck does she think she is?_ _ **Nobody**_ _does that to me and gets away with it._

Taylor had moved a few steps away in the interim; this merely served to let Sophia build up a little speed. Wimp Taylor might not be, but neither was she any kind of seasoned fighter; she turned far too late as Sophia bore down on her.

"Look, I _told_ you -" she began, only to break off with an "Oof!" as Sophia's shoulder slammed into her midsection. They went down in a tangled pile on the Boardwalk. First they rolled one way then the other, each one struggling for dominance.

Taylor wasn't as strong as Sophia, or as fit. She certainly wasn't accustomed to fighting. But Sophia didn't want to hurt her and she didn't want to reveal her powers, which reduced the options open to her.

Still, it wasn't long before Sophia managed to push her on to her back and hold her down with a hand on each forearm. Taylor had lost her glasses in the struggle, but the glare she directed at Sophia was no less fierce for all of that.

"Stop fighting," panted Sophia. "We don't need to fight. I don't want to hurt you."

"Says the bitch who just tackled me," Taylor gasped. She tried to pull one arm free and failed. Undeterred, she tried with the other arm.

"I _don't,"_ insisted Sophia. "I just want to know about Emma."

"And until you tell me why, you can just fuck off in triplicate," Taylor managed. Heaving herself up a little, she pulled her arms together behind her head.

Sophia didn't realise what she was doing until Taylor's left hand grabbed Sophia's right wrist. Taylor didn't wear her nails long, but they were long enough; when she sank them into Sophia's wrist, Sophia yelped and let go of Taylor's arm.

The punch that Taylor then delivered into Sophia's ribs wasn't particularly expert, but it still hurt. She pulled her arm back and did it again, then a third time. Sophia tightened her grip on Taylor's left wrist and twisted her own left arm to break the grip. She succeeded but at that moment, Taylor heaved, throwing Sophia off of her altogether.

Sophia landed on her side; Taylor was rolling rapidly in the other direction in an attempt to widen the distance. But there was something the other girl wasn't seeing.

"Look out!" Sophia called, too late. Taylor came to the edge of the Boardwalk, rolling straight under the safety rail. At the last moment, realising the danger, she reached out and tried to grab the rail, but missed. The last that Sophia saw of her was the soles of her trainers, disappearing over the side. Sophia heard the sound of the impact.

Getting up, Sophia staggered to the rail, holding her ribs. Amateur she might be, but Taylor threw a mean punch. Looking over the rail, she saw Taylor, lying on the sand about ten feet below. She was on her side, face half-buried in the granular particles. One arm was twisted oddly. There was no sign of movement.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," muttered Sophia. _Not again, not again._ Looking left and right, she realised what should already have been obvious to her, that this part of the Boardwalk was currently deserted. Otherwise, the fight would have been broken up before it went too far. But this also meant that Sophia could cheat a little.

Vaulting over the rail, she went to shadow form before she hit the ground, then reformed beside Taylor. Grabbing Taylor's shoulder, she rolled her on to her back. "Are you all right -"

The handful of sand caught her square in the face. She coughed and choked and tried to blink her eyes clear, but she didn't get the chance. A punch to the face made her reel, then she was pushed on to her stomach and a heavy weight landed on her back; it felt like somebody's knee. Having her face ground into the sand didn't help her breathing problems; Taylor grabbed one arm and twisted it behind her back, but Sophia wouldn't let her get a grip on the other.

"What do you want with me?" demanded Taylor. "What do you want with Emma? Who are you? What the fuck is going on?" With each question, she pushed Sophia's face into the sand.

Sophia was struggling just to breathe. _I could go shadow, but that would out me._ Instead, she used her free arm to push herself up just a little, so that she wasn't inhaling sand.

"What do you want to know about Emma for?" Taylor's questions were relentless. "Where do you know her from?" She leaned even harder on Sophia's back; Sophia felt her vertebrae straining under the load. _I've got to do something._

Turning her head, she blurted out the one thing she hadn't meant to say. "I was there when she died."

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

Taylor stopped pushing Sophia's face into the sand, stopped pushing her arm up behind her back. She just stared down at the dark-skinned girl, a whirl of thoughts displacing her anger, her hurt.

"What." She had wanted to ask a dozen questions, but the single word was all that came out.

Sophia turned her head farther, so that she could look up at Taylor with one eye. "I was there. When she died. I saw it happen."

"She was killed by gang members!" yelled Taylor. "They cut her throat! How could you have been _there?"_

Sophia's answer was as straightforward as it was shocking. "Because I'm the one who killed _them."_

Taylor's grip loosened all the way. She got off of Sophia and watched dumbly as the other girl sat up and scrubbed the sand from her eyes and nose, spitting out particles as she did so. By the time she looked up, Taylor was just staring at her.

"You killed them." Her tone was flat; she didn't know whether or not to believe Sophia.

"Yeah." Sophia's tone was equally flat. "I did. Each and every one of the bastards."

"The police said a vigilante did it. But they wouldn't say who." Taylor stared at Sophia. "You're good at fighting. But you're not that good. How could you kill them all?"

"The police aren't saying because it's not their jurisdiction." Sophia's lip twisted. "They'll have passed it on to the PRT."

Taylor blinked as she realised what Sophia was saying. "You're a _cape?"_

Sophia nodded once, curtly. "Shadow Stalker. That's me."

For a second, Taylor was puzzled, and then memory clicked in. "Oh, right. I've heard that name. That's _you?"_

As an answer, Sophia's body blurred into a mist-like form; when she reformed, she was standing upright. "That's me, yeah."

"Oh. Oh, wow." Taylor, still sitting on the sand, stared up at Sophia. Her eyesight was pretty bad without her glasses, but she'd still seen that. _I'm talking to a_ _ **cape**_ _?_ "So ..." She paused. "… why do you want to know about Emma?"

Sophia extended a hand to help Taylor up. "I don't know about you, but I've got sand down my neck and in my hair." Taylor noticed that she tacitly didn't mention the sand that had been thrown in her face, or the fact that her face had been rubbed in more sand. "Why don't we go get ourselves cleaned up, and then we can talk some more, if you want."

Taylor accepted the hand up; Sophia's grip, as she had previously noted, was quite strong. She came to her feet, then looked vaguely around. "My glasses. Can you see them anywhere?"

Sophia pointed at the Boardwalk above them. "I think they're up there."

"Of course they are." Taylor shook her head in resignation, causing a light shower of sand from her hair. "Which way are the steps?"

"Wow, you really can't see much without your glasses, can you?"

"Nope. Short-sighted as hell."

"That must suck." Sophia pointed. "Stairs are this way."

As they began to trudge in that direction, Taylor looked at Sophia. "You know something?"

Sophia rubbed at her cheekbone, where Taylor's punch had connected. "What's that?"

"If you'd led with the whole 'I was there when she died' thing, you would've had my complete and total attention, and I wouldn't have had to kick your ass."

"Oh, pul-leeeze. You weren't kicking my ass. I had you right where I wanted you."

"Really?" Taylor snorted. "You must love eating sand then."

Bickering amicably, the two headed for the steps.

* * *

 **Sophia**

* * *

"Okay, so give."

Taylor, once more bespectacled, had gotten rid of the sand from her clothing and hair. She sat opposite Sophia, also free of unwanted silicates, and sipped at her tea. There were fries in a basket between them; she nibbled at one while she awaited Sophia's answer.

Sophia, for her part, took her time. She glanced around at the other patrons of the cafe, noting that none were close enough to easily eavesdrop on the conversation. Nobody was even paying them much in the way of attention, which was exactly the way she liked it. She was also going through what she was going to tell Taylor very carefully; she had to tell it in such a way that she didn't vary too much from the truth, but also so that Taylor didn't learn certain aspects of her actions.

"The ABB had them trapped in the alley," she began. "Dumpster in front, van behind. They'd dragged her out of the car and had her on her knees. Not sure what was going on there. I think maybe they were making her choose which part of her face they were going to cut up."

Taylor put her cup down with a distinct _clink_ and laced her fingers together. "But they didn't …" she began uncertainly.

"No, no, they didn't," Sophia hastened to assure her. "She fought them. Just as I got there, she elbowed one of the guys in the nuts. But when she went to pull free, the girl with the knife just … cut her throat."

Taylor shut her eyes hard, then opened them again. "Just like that?" Her voice was a little faint.

Sophia looked her straight in the eyes, pushing the lie as hard as she could. "Yeah. Just like that. She said something to Emma around about then, but I wasn't listening. I was aiming."

"Aiming?"

"Yeah." Sophia was back on familiar ground. "About three seconds after she did that, I shot her in the back of the neck with a razor-tipped crossbow arrow. Then I killed the rest of them."

Taylor breathed deeply, looking fixedly at the table. Her hands clenched on one another, the knuckles whitening almost alarmingly. _"Good."_

Sophia shrugged very slightly. "They killed her. Only made sense that they had to die, too."

There was a long silence, then Taylor looked up at her. "I have to know … did she … did Emma … was she …"

"She didn't suffer," Sophia assured her, then launched into her second lie. "She … well, when I got back to her, she was still alive. Still awake. Just barely hanging on. She looked me in the face and tried to say something. All I got was 'T …'. At the time, I thought she was trying to thank me for killing them. But now I think she was saying 'Taylor'."

"Oh god." Taylor's voice was low. "Oh god. Oh god. She died in that alley and I wasn't there for her."

"I wish I could have saved her." Sophia was entirely sincere now. "She came across as a fighter. Someone who didn't give up."

"Yeah, no, she was all of that." Taylor spoke hastily. "She never took shit from anyone. Never backed down. Always knew what she was doing and where she was going, and god help anyone who got in her way."

 _So she was a fighter after all._ Sophia ignored the fact that she'd led Taylor into saying that. _She wouldn't lie to me about her best friend._

A silence fell across the table; both of them ate fries, while Taylor drank tea and Sophia had some of her fruit concoction. Taylor didn't seem to want to break the silence, while Sophia wasn't sure how to lead the conversation where she wanted it to go. _The last time I tried something like that, it didn't go so well._

"Well, I really appreciate you tracking me down and telling me what happened." Taylor had obviously decided that the silence was becoming awkward. "I'm just wondering. Where do we go from here?"

This was as good an opening as she was going to get. "How would you like to help me get revenge on those gangbanger sons of bitches?"

Taylor blinked. "I … didn't you say that you killed them all?"

Sophia's smile was grim. "There's more than them out there." She paused a moment. "And they'll be hurting and killing other innocents every night, out there. If someone doesn't stop them."

She ate a fry while awaiting Taylor's answer. It wasn't long in coming.

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

The alleyway was dark and smelled of rotting garbage. Some of it squished under Taylor's trainers as she waited. She blended into the shadows well, dressed from head to toe in the darkest clothing she owned. _God, I hope Dad doesn't notice that I snuck out._

Sophia was late. The longer she waited, the more aware Taylor became of the stench of the alleyway, and the fact that she, a teenage girl with no particular training in crimefighting skills, was lurking in said alleyway, alone, with just a canister of pepper spray to protect herself.

 _What am I even doing?_ It was a variation on a question she had asked herself a dozen times over the last few days, as her preparations to go out on patrol with Sophia became closer to completion. There was a point to the question; she was no more prepared for violent encounters than Emma had been. _What's to stop what happened to her, from happening to me?_

As if in answer to the unspoken question, a shadow beside her solidified into Sophia, wearing the Shadow Stalker costume. "Hi." Her voice was barely a murmur.

For all that she had been expecting this, Taylor jumped. "Shit!" she hissed. "Don't _do_ that!"

Sophia chuckled, the sound low and dark in the alleyway. "Sorry. Anyway, got you something."

"What?"

"Hold out your hand."

Obediently, Taylor did so; a moment later, her fingers wrapped around the handle of a baseball bat. It had been wrapped with electrical tape for better grip. "Wow," she murmured, hefting the weapon. "Oh, wow." Just swinging it back and forth gave her a feeling of power, of being in more control of her own destiny.

"I used it up until I got the crossbows," Sophia explained in an undertone. "Just remember; don't come in unless you think I need help. If you _do_ have to come in, aim for the head or the joints and just keep swinging until you and me are the only ones standing."

"Right." Taylor realised that her voice sounded less than totally enthusiastic.

Sophia apparently picked up on the same vibe. "You okay with doing this? Want to back out?"

 _Maybe._ She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. "No. I'm doing this. For Emma." _She'd do it for me._

"Good. Come on, then, if you're coming." Sophia turned and vanished into the darkness.

After a moment, Taylor followed.

* * *

End of Part Four


	6. Chapter 6

**All Alone**

* * *

Part Five: It All Goes Wrong

* * *

 _[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]_

* * *

 **Taylor**

* * *

 _I really need to get fit._ She tried not to pant too obviously, jogging along between the ill-lit buildings. Ahead and above, a shadowy figure flitted from rooftop to rooftop. _God, I hope she doesn't lose me._ She could feel the nylon swimming wallet fastened around her right ankle; it contained money for cab fare, but she wasn't looking forward to trying to find a working pay phone in this neighbourhood. _And I definitely don't want to try walking home alone._

But she couldn't keep her eyes on the rooftops all the time; there was litter on the sidewalk, and if she hadn't kept an eye on where she was going, she would have tripped over a dozen times by now. Looking upward again, she tried to spot Sophia. There was nobody that she could see. _Crap. Well, she was moving in this direction …_

Renewing her grip on the baseball bat, she moved forward again, trying to look in all directions at once. When the dark shape stepped out of a nearby alley, she let out a stifled gasp of relief. "Oh, _there_ you are."

"Here I am," agreed the indistinct figure, in a voice that was deep and masculine, and not at all like Sophia's. "And there you are. What you doing walking down my street at night, girlie?"

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit._ Gripping the bat in both hands, she backed away a few steps. _What do I say? What do they say in those Westerns?_ "Just passing through. Don't want any trouble."

His chuckle was not at all reassuring. "I don't want trouble either. But I _am_ gonna get me some sugar." He stepped forward, and she heard the _snik_ of a blade opening. "So keep quiet and there won't be any trouble at all."

 _Oh, yeah. It doesn't work in those Westerns, either._

"Keep away from me!" She hated that her voice quavered on the last word. "I've got a friend -"

"Come here, bitch!" He lunged toward her; instinctively, she raised the bat and swung down as hard as she could. There was a solid _thump_ and a muted _crack,_ and he let out a strangled scream. "Fuckin' _bitch!_ I'll fuckin' _kill_ you for that!"

Remembering Sophia's brief tutorial on the subject, she stepped around to the right, hoping to avoid his knife hand, and swung the bat in a hard arc at knee level. Again, there was a solid _thump_ that vibrated all the way up the bat into her hands. He let out another scream, a little more high-pitched this time, and she heard him fall to the ground.

"Maybe next time you'll -" she began, then yelped as she felt a hand close around her ankle. He jerked, trying to throw her off balance, but she brought the bat down hard, swinging blindly in the near-total darkness. On the third impact, his grip relaxed. By the sixth, he had let go. She hit him three more times, more out of reflex than of any desire to make sure. Panting, she stepped back carefully.

When the light cut out of the darkness to blind her, she threw up her arm to protect her eyes, and stepped back again. _Oh, fuck, he had friends._

"Well fucking _done."_ This time, it _was_ Sophia's voice, sounding warm and amused. "You sure as shit put the beatdown on that bastard. I _knew_ the Boardwalk wasn't a fluke."

Taylor felt her heart rate slowing down from 'ludicrous' to merely 'very fast'. "Are you _nuts?_ The guy would've … fuck, he wanted to …" Even now, she couldn't actually say it. Saying it would make it real, and she didn't want it to be real.

"Yeah, and how many other girls has he done it to?" Sophia's voice was hard, now. She pointed the light at the man, sprawled on the ground in front of Taylor. "He asked for it. You know it."

"Is … is he _alive?"_ The guy was lying really, really still. Taylor had a bad feeling about this. Blood and hair were smeared on the bat.

"Sure he is." Sophia came closer and knelt beside the body. With two fingers, looking very professional, she felt the side of his neck. "Yup, there's a pulse. He'll be fine. And maybe he won't try and grab girls in the dark any more."

"Oh, good." Taylor felt relief wash through her. _I know what he tried to do, but I didn't want to_ _ **kill**_ _him._

Coming to her feet in one lithe move, Sophia slapped Taylor on the shoulder. "Score one for the good guys. Come on, Night Girl. Let's go find some more assholes to show the error of their ways."

Taylor felt a warm flush of pleasure at Sophia's use of her temporary 'cape' name. It made her feel like a real hero. Like she was actually helping to make a difference.

* * *

 **Sophia**

* * *

"Yeah." Taylor gripped the bat a little more tightly, as if drawing strength from its presence. "Let's go do that." Then she pointed it at Sophia. "But don't fucking ditch me again. Got it?"

Behind her mask, Sophia smiled. _Oh, yeah. She's a fighter._ "Got it, parter. Ready to go do some righteous ass-kicking of evil?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"Great." Turning off the flashlight, Sophia tucked it into the pouch on her belt and waited till their eyes had adjusted before leading the way out of the narrow side-street. She didn't want Taylor looking too closely at the guy on the ground, because she hadn't actually been able to find a pulse.

 _If she realises that she's killed someone on her first go-around, she might panic. Give her time to get a little more used to the idea first._ Of course, Sophia could've applied CPR, maybe even restarted his heart and gotten him breathing again. But why waste it on an oxygen thief like that? _Some people are just plain better off dead._

Out on the main thoroughfare, the street-lights were actually working. Sophia strode along, cloak flaring, trying to project the impression that yes, she did actually own the whole damn street. Alongside her, Taylor pulled up the scarf to cover the lower part of her face and tried to copy her mannerisms. She wasn't entirely successful, but Sophia had to give her props for the effort.

After about a minute of this, Taylor turned to her. "So how do you do it?"

Sophia thought she knew where this was going, but the question was begging to be asked. "Do what?"

"Go out, night after night," Taylor said. "Knowing that they'll still be there after you go home. Knowing that no matter how hard you try, someone's likely to get knifed in an alley, but you didn't stop it because you were half a mile in the wrong direction." She waved her free hand, probably in an attempt to clarify her meaning. "How do you not lose faith in what you're doing?"

Fortunately, this was a question that Sophia had asked herself more than once. "I go out because someone needs to," she said bluntly. "The Protectorate does these cutesey little patrols, making enough noise that the bad guys duck into their holes until the heroes have gone past. They might stop a mugging a week, if the mugger's careless." She tapped herself on the chest. "What colour's my costume?"

"Uh, black." Taylor's eyes opened a little wider behind her glasses, as if she had just realised what Sophia was getting at.

"Exactly." Behind her mask, Sophia sneered, although it wasn't at Taylor. "The rest of them wear nice bright colours. Fucking Clockblocker wears _white._ He doesn't even have a ranged ability. So how the fuck he's going to sneak up on _anyone_ is beyond me. They don't patrol, they _display._ They show off the fact that yes, wow, there are superheroes in town, and we'll protect you, we _promise."_ By this time her hand was laid across her chest in a parody of someone swearing an oath, and her voice was as viciously sarcastic as she could make it. "Just so long as the bad guys commit the crimes right in front of us, on the schedule that we stick to on our patrols, and wait while we phone up Legend in New York so that he can personally give us permission to _get off our fucking asses and do something."_

" … wow." Taylor was staring at her. "It's not that bad, really. Is it?"

Sophia felt almost sorry for the taller girl's cluelessness. "I've watched them. They do the same damn patrols over the same areas, over and over, week after week. Crime goes down in those areas, because the criminals aren't idiots. They go elsewhere. Me, I vary my routine. One week one area, another week another area. And anything I stop, I stop _hard._ By the time I finish with those assholes, they _know_ not to fuck with Shadow Stalker."

"Yeah." Taylor's voice was quiet. "You sure as hell stopped the ones that killed Emma."

"Damn right I did." Sophia felt quiet pride that Taylor was listening and understanding. "They aren't ever going to hurt anyone again."

"But there's more where they came from." The way Taylor voiced it, it wasn't a question.

"All the way up to Lung," confirmed Sophia. "And before you ask, no, I'm not fucking stupid enough to try to take him down. Kaiser, I could manage. But Purity would damn well turn me into a _crater_ if I did."

"What about your shadow form?" asked Taylor.

Behind her mask, Sophia grimaced. "Would _you_ want to be the one to find out that you're not immune to her blasts?"

Taylor looked enlightened. "Well, no, I guess not." She paused. "So … what you were saying about why you go out."

Sophia shrugged. "I do it because someone has to. I do it because people need to know that there's _someone_ out here, watching out for them. But mostly, I do it because there are people in the world who desperately need to have their heads kicked in, and I'm just the one to do the kicking."

"Right." Taylor nodded. "I think I get it. I really do."

 _I knew she was smart._ "Good, because -" Sophia broke off at the sound of a scream, up ahead. "Okay, talky time's over. Move it."

She accelerated into a sprint, feeling the cloak billow out behind her. It hampered her slightly, but not by a huge amount. Taylor's footsteps told her that the taller girl was trying gamely to keep up.

Another scream sounded from an alleyway, just up ahead. Sophia came to a halt, and looked around the corner.

There were five men, wearing Merchant colours, menacing two women and a man. The male victim was on his knees, cradling an arm which had red soaking through the sleeve. Both women seemed to be cowering back, not fighting at all. Sophia frowned at the sight of the blood. _Did he try to fight back, or …?_

Taylor skidded to a halt behind her, then leaned out to peer past her. "Holy _shit!"_ she whispered. "What are we gonna do?"

"We're gonna kick the shit out of them," Sophia said automatically. "But -"

"Right!" Taylor darted past her. "Let's get them!"

Sophia's eyes widened as Taylor went straight for the men baseball bat raised. _Shit – no -_

Turning the corner herself, Sophia followed in Taylor's wake. _When we're done here, I'm gonna have a talk with her about assessing the situation first._

The first guy had obviously not expected to see a teenage girl come running at him, screaming some incoherent war-cry, and brandishing a baseball bat over her head. He froze for that all-important half-second, which was all that Taylor needed. There was a solid _clunk_ as bat met head, and he went down and out.

This left Taylor facing four armed and aware opponents. Even if they _were_ Merchants, this still meant that there was a certain amount of danger involved. Not for Sophia, of course; given room to move, she could have taken them apart for light exercise. But Taylor had no training. All she had going for her was enthusiasm and a baseball bat.

"Night Girl! Down!" shouted Sophia. Taylor dropped to the ground. Sophia sighted on two of the Merchant assholes and triggered her crossbows. Razor-tipped arrows whipped across the gap; one impacted the target in the shoulder, while the other skimmed past the other guy and lodged into a wall.

"Fuuck!" screamed the guy she'd hit, stumbling to his knees. _Pussy_. The other one, wide-eyed, looked down at where the arrowhead had parted his jacket sleeve on the way past, and bolted. _Bigger pussy._ Sophia never paused, leaping past Taylor to slam her heel into the gut of one of the two still standing.

He folded, but she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and went to shadow half a second before a heavy boot swept through her body. Rolling out of the way, she flickered into solidity and drove her elbow into the back of his neck. _Where the fuck is Taylor? She's supposed to be backing me up, here._

She spent half a second too long looking around for the taller girl; all of a sudden, brawny arms wrapped around her from behind. The guy she'd elbowed, still shaky, brandished a knife at her face. "Gonna cut you, bitch," he slurred.

Letting the guy behind her support her, she kicked him solidly in the nuts, then went to shadow form once more. Reforming behind the guy who'd grabbed her, she locked her arm around his neck in a sleeper hold. He clawed at the tough cloth of her costume sleeve, but was unable to get a proper purchase.

Then the guy she'd nutsacked got up again. He was even more wobbly than before, but he was still up and fighting. _He must get kicked there a lot._ This was getting tedious; she'd tried to keep things less than lethal, but these guys were getting on her nerves, and she still didn't know where Taylor was.

Releasing the bigger guy, she rolled backward out of the way. With quick, practised movements, she reloaded her crossbows; as the guy with the knife came at her, she nailed him through the kneecap. _That_ put him down, screaming like a little baby. His buddy, still groggy from the almost-choking, took one in each thigh before he went down too.

"Night Girl!" she called out, retrieving her arrows. The place online where she bought them supplied a discount for bulk orders, but even with druggie money, they still cost a bit. "Where are you?"

Straightening up, she looked around. No Taylor. Putting the arrows away, she strode over to where the mugging victims were just getting to their feet. "Hey, you."

The guy with the cut on his arm blinked. "M-me?"

"Yeah, you. You see where Night Girl went?" She waited a second for him to get the idea, then sighed in exasperation. "The other girl. The one with the baseball bat."

One of the women raised her hand slightly. "Uh, she chased the other guy, the one who ran away."

 _Oh, shit._ "Which way did she go?"

The woman pointed. Sophia didn't hesitate; she took off running in that direction. Behind her, the man's voice dwindled away. "Aren't you going to wait for …"

 _The police? Hell, no. And stay out of dark alleys, you idiot._

Reaching the street, she skidded to a halt. There was no sign of Taylor or her quarry to the left or right. _Oh, come_ _ **on**_ _. I didn't take_ _ **that**_ _long to kick their asses._

"Night Girl!" she called out, cupping her hands in front of her mask. "Where the fuck are you?"

There was still no answer, but she thought she heard a car trunk slam shut. Unfortunately, from the way the sound echoed, she wasn't sure where it came from. A few seconds later, she heard a car door closing. _That sounded like it came from the right._ Hoping she was correct, she turned right and started jogging down the street, looking around for any clue that Taylor might have come this way.

 _Shit, if she gets hurt because of me …_

A car engine started, somewhere out of her line of sight. _Fuck. Where's that coming from?_ It had been loud, so it was kind of close, but …

Just as she was crossing in front of yet another alleyway, headlights flared into high beam. Half-blinded, she flung her arm up in front of her eyes, trying to see what was going on. The car engine sounded again, roaring to a crescendo and rapidly getting closer. Instinctively, she went to shadow form and leaped straight up; the vehicle rocketed out of the alleyway below her. Dropping to the ground once more, she tried to get the number of the car, but it was swerving crazily from one side of the street to the other, having almost hit a parked vehicle.

Pulling her flashlight out, she scanned the alleyway. _If Taylor cornered him in here, he might've just knocked her out before making his getaway. If she's hurt, I need to find her._

But there was no teenage girl to be seen. Just a familiar-looking baseball bat, and a black scarf that looked awfully like the one that Taylor had been using to conceal her identity. The horrifying reality burst in on her. _Fuck. He took her with him. She's in the trunk._

Whirling, she sprinted from the alleyway, just in time to see the car's tail-lights take the corner at the end of the block. _Fuck. I have to catch up with that thing._

Never in all her track and field experience had she run quite so fast. On the way, she unfastened the cloak and let it fall behind her. Pelting around the corner, she slowed down, heaving for breath.

The street was empty. As her breathing slowed, she could vaguely hear the engine of the car, but there was no way to pinpoint it.

 _Fuck. I lost them._

Slumping against the side of the building, she wrapped her arms around herself. _I failed. Again. Taylor came out with me. She trusted me to back her up. And now the fucking Merchants have got her._ Raising her face to the uncaring night sky, she arched her fingers into claws and screamed, _"FUUUUUUCK!"_

This time, there was no mistaking the red-hot ball of guilt that sat in her gut. _I have fucked up so very, very badly. Taylor was a fighter, and I didn't teach her, I didn't train her. I just assumed she was ready. And now she's dead, or worse._ Sophia had _seen_ what the Merchants did in their spare time. She had no illusions about any kind of mercy that Taylor might face.

Gritting her teeth, she bumped the back of her head against the brickwork behind her. _How the_ _ **fuck**_ _do I make this right?_

And then the answer came to her. Straightening up, she dashed back around the corner. On the way back across the street, she snagged her cloak and refastened it on the run. Retracing her steps, she retrieved the scarf and the baseball bat, tucking the former into her belt. And then she made her way to the alleyway where the mugging had taken place.

The three victims were gone, which was good. Taylor's first target still lay there, unconscious. The guy she'd gotten in the shoulder was lying there in a huge pool of blood, barely moving. _Must've hit an artery. Oh, well._

The two she'd gotten with leg injuries were conscious, but in considerable pain. Kneecap guy was actually almost to his feet, or rather, foot. Leaning against the wall, he started in fear as Sophia re-entered the alleyway. "Stay away from me, you crazy bitch," he babbled. "You fucked my knee."

Sophia looked dispassionately at him, then at the one with a wound in each thigh; that one was sitting up, but hadn't managed to work out the concept of standing quite yet. She hefted the bat and moved toward the guy with the kneecap. "You're gonna tell me where you guys hang out," she said quietly. "And you're gonna tell me right the fuck now. You got me?"

"Fuck you, skank," he blustered. "I ain't gonna tell you fucking shit."

"Have it your way." She braced herself and swung the bat as hard as she could. It impacted with the side of his good knee with a sickening _crack._ Screaming shrilly, he crumpled to the trash-strewn ground.

" _Fuuuuuck!"_ he screamed, writhing in agony. "My fucking knee! You fucking bitch!"

She put one foot on his leg and took aim at the knee she'd shot out. "Tell me where. Right the fuck now."

"Shit, no, no, no," he blurted. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you." Hastily, he rattled off an address. Sophia knew the street, but hadn't thought there was a Merchant hangout there.

She frowned at him. "I think you're fucking with me." Raising the bat, she smashed it into his knee anyway. He convulsed, shrieking so loudly she thought he might pop a blood vessel, and then passed out.

Sophia turned to the other guy, who had been watching with horror. "One down," she said as menacingly as she could. "So, you want to tell me where you really hang out, or you want me to see how many ways I can fuck up your legs too?" She slapped the bat into her palm. Already pale, he went sheet-white.

* * *

 **Merchant Hangout, at the same time**

* * *

Joe looked over his cards at the other guys in the game. Mitch looked like he might be out of it, though Roach was still in the game despite the huge joint he kept toking on. Ziggy, on the other hand, was tripping hard on something, which puzzled Joe. He hadn't known Ziggy had anything worth tripping with.

He rearranged his cards and peered at them. The smoke from Roach's joint drifted across the table, making it hard to concentrate. Finally, he pushed a couple of tiny pills into the stash in the middle of the table. "I bet two E."

Mitch blinked awake and licked dry lips, reaching for one of the E's. Joe slapped his hand. "You need to win the pot first."

"Oh. Yeah." Mitch put down his cards. "I win."

Just as Joe was peering at the cards, the door to the hangout opened. Roach took a hit on his joint, then gusted the smoke across the table as he spoke. "Dude. We didn't ask for any party favours."

Joe looked around. Ray stepped into the hangout and shut the door behind him. He had someone over his shoulder, dressed in black from the waist down. Joe couldn't see if it was a guy or a girl, and what they were wearing from the waist up, but he assumed it was much the same.

"Not a party favour," Ray said, dropping his burden on to one of the ratty armchairs. Joe had been right. Black clothing from top to toe. Plus, long hair, which probably made it a girl.

"Shit, it's a kid," Joe said. "What the fuck, Ray? If you're gonna get someone high and bring them back, at least make sure they've got tits."

"I can't tell," mumbled Roach. "Is it a boy or a girl? If it's a boy, I'm out." Joe sniggered; the 'boy in a dress' prank they'd played on him that one time had been fucking _hilarious._ Some of the photos were still floating around somewhere, too.

"It's a girl," Ray said. "And she's Shadow Stalker's fucking partner."

That name got Joe's attention. He looked more closely at the girl's face. It was pretty badly bruised, with split lips and a broken nose; one eye was badly swollen. "You sure?" All of them there had a major hate-on for that shadow bitch. She stole their money, torched their drugs and shot arrows into them at every opportunity. Joe was pretty sure that she had even offed a couple of guys he'd known.

"Dead fucking sure," Ray stated flatly. "Me and the others ran into them in an alley off Dwight. Remember that one that people cut through all the time?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, that one," Ray said. "Two of them, five of us, this one had a baseball bat. Hit Donny right over the head. Then Shadow Stalker started shooting, so I legged it. I'm the only one who got away. This bitch chased me, but it turns out she's got no idea how to fight. I got the bat off her, so she tried to pepper-spray me, but I saw it coming. Knocked it out of her hand and kinda tuned her up a bit. Dropped her in the trunk and came here."

"Duuuude," breathed Roach. "My fuckin' _hero."_

Joe frowned. "Why bring her back here? Why not just fuckin' shank her and leave her?"

"Because she's Shadow Stalker's fuckin' _partner,_ you dick," Ray said. "We can finally find out where that bitch lives, and put a fuckin' _end_ to her."

Joe looked at the girl apprehensively. "What about her powers?"

Ray shrugged. "Didn't use any. Unless 'sucky at fighting' is a cape power these days."

"All-righty, then." Joe got up, ignoring Mitch grabbing at the stash of pills in the middle of the table. He pushed his chair into the middle of the floor. "Tie her to this and wake her up. We got some questions to ask this little bitch."

It didn't take long to wrestle her limp form on to the chair. They had no rope, but an extension cord did the job just as easily. It was Roach, as he tied her ankles to the chair legs, who found something interesting. "Hey, what's this?" he asked, pushing up her pants leg.

"What?" asked Joe.

"This." Roach pointed at a flat wallet of some sort, strapped to her ankle. "Think it's important?"

Joe laughed out loud. "Important? That's fuckin' _golden."_ Pulling his switchblade and popping it open, he leaned down to slice the straps holding it to the girl's leg. "Okay, let's see." There was a zipper on one side; opening the wallet, he went through it, pocket by pocket.

"Well, well," he chuckled. "Well, well, fucking _well._ Thirty dollars. Must be cab fare. Well, it's mine now."

"Hey," slurred Roach. "I found that. That money's _mine."_

Joe rolled his eyes. "Next time, _you_ check the fuckin' thing out then, loser." Tucking the money into his pocket, he kept searching. It didn't feel as though there was anything else in there, but he kept looking on general principles. He was just about to give up when he found something else. "What's this?"

"What's what?" asked Ray.

"A name. _This wallet belongs to T. Herbert_ ," he said, squinting to decipher the faded, fraying label, stitched into the very last pocket. "No, wait. Hebert."

"Weird fucking name," Ray said. "You sure that's what it says?"

"Sure as shit," Joe assured him. "Like 'Herbert', but without the first 'R'."

Ray grinned. "Good. Let's see if they're in the phone book." He rummaged through a cupboard until he found a White Pages, then started riffling through it. "Let's see … Hays … Head … Heath … Hebert … well, fuck me. It's a real name after all." His grimy fingernail came to a halt on the sole listing for Hebert. "Okay, I've got an address for D and A Hebert."

"Well, it's a good bet that that's where _this_ bitch lives." Joe shrugged. "Dunno what Shadow Bitch's name is, though. Or even if she lives there."

"One way to find out." That was Ray. "I'll get some of the guys together and go over there. Find out what the fuck's going on, and put a fucking _end_ to it."

"And I'll stay here." Joe looked down at the unconscious girl. "See what she can tell us about Shadow Stalker. And then we'll teach her not to mess in Merchant business. Ever fucking again."

"Wait." It was Roach. He blinked as Joe and Ray both turned to look at him. "Uh … aren't there rules for this sort of thing? Unmasking capes and shit like that?"

Ray grinned unpleasantly. He was really good at it. "We're not capes. They don't apply to us."

Joe nodded. "Damn _straight."_

* * *

End of Part Five


End file.
